30,000 Feet From Over It

“Don’t do it”, I whisper to myself. 

I’m hoping it was in my head, but after a few glasses of wine and not nearly enough food or water, my delirium supersedes my awareness, and I realize I very well could have muttered it audibly. 

“This is NOT what you bought in-flight wifi for”, I think as I type “o” into my Instagram search field. 

The photos take a second to load. Actually, with how spotty this plane’s wifi is, they take a lot more than that. More than enough time to close the app and quit this masochistic behavior. 

“A coffee and a water please. No ice!” 

That’s a trick I’ve picked up on with all this exhausting, and draining and apparently very emotionally charged traveling. If you ask for water without ice you get nearly twice as much. 

I chug it down and feel my lips plump back up with circulation in a way that’s moderately concerning but also sort of marveling. 

I’ve had the uncomfortable feeling of rejuvenated heartbreak for over an hour now. Somewhere over the Midwest I felt my chest begin to claw at my conscious thought, and thus began the headache and heartache simultaneously battling inside of me, each wanting more attention than the other. 

“Whyyyyyyyy”, I sigh as I opened and then shut the window two times, back to back. 

I’m almost annoyed at how clichéd my suffering is, because, honestly, to stare out a plane window thinking about what fell apart or what could have been is a Sarah Dessen-styled narrative that I’d like to think even my heartbreak would find too generic to entertain. 

But I have no control. 

Without the emotional strength or fight it, (and more so without anything else to truly occupy my mind or anywhere to go) I give these emotions free reign. 

I don’t feel sad, or even nostalgic really, but right here, at 30,000 foot altitude I feel the frozen mass of heartbreak begin to thaw inside of me. 

It’s like when the snow melts and you see a small plant, or dog’s leash, or child’s toy that was buried throughout the Winter months suddenly reappear. 

“This again? Really?”, I groan to myself. 

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Sure, I don’t often think about it anymore, and certainly I’m much happier with my life now. But let’s not be negligent! My current satisfaction and lack of longing don’t work to undo what’s done when you’re truly, horribly, heartbroken. 

With even the little display of whatever the fuck that was today, en route to Los Angeles with not even a glimmer of sadness in my mind, it’s made apparent to me that heartbreak is unpredictable and that, once you have a broken heart inside of you, at any point, it’s skeleton can continue to haunt you, even once it’s healed. 

Think of it like an old injury. Say you tore your ACL when you were younger. You had the surgery, went to physical therapy, and within a year or so you were back at full capacity, playing with the same ability as before it had torn, and oftentimes forgetful that it even had! 

(PSA i’m not a fucking doctor so if that’s a super unrealistic example then I’m sorry but let’s ride this analogy out). 

But let’s say that, one day you’re out and about dicking around with friends and out of nowhere tweak that knee and within seconds you feel the searing pain of the initial injury, or even some dull but present pain comes back, causing you to remember the injury, the surgery and all the rest of it. 

You may just sit out for a few minutes and feel back to normal straightaway. 

You may need to avoid stairs for a full week. 

Because that’s how old injuries work. 

You don’t know if you’ll feel their effects again and, if so, in what capacity. 

That’s how I can speak to what I continue to go through. 

There are times- like right now, when I’m somewhere over Texas and feeling the dull pain of an old injury, wondering what it could have been that tweaked it this time. 

Committed to seeing this relapse out to its fullest, I rest my head back on the blue leather seat, flag the stewardess down for some more water and see that my Instagram has finally loaded. 

“Her hair is pretty shiny for it being so blonde”, I think to myself as I let this mass melt into a Springtime puddle for the first time in a long time. 


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